The Power of Six
by mythomagic
Summary: The curse has been broken. Alannah-Number Seven-must journey to find her fellow Loriens. Once the remaining six unite,the Garde may have a chance in defeating the Mogadorians-but will they find each other before the world as we know it goes up in flames?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! As some of you may know, I'm mythomagic, author of the Book of Ra (a Kane Chronicles fanfic.) I had to write this for a term reading project, so I thought I'd continue it. It's basically what I think the next Lorien Legacies book will be about. This fanfic follows Seven, aka Alannah, and her journey to find her fellow Loriens. Once the remaining Loriens unite, the Garde may have a chance in defeating the Mogadorians-but will they find each other before the world as we know it goes up in flames?**

**The Power Of Six**

_Based on Pittacus Lore's "I Am Number Four"_

_The curse has been broken._ I knew it the moment I woke up that morning, in the same quaint, little house I had lived in for five long years. _Five_ years. It must be a new Lorien record; one of the Nine living in the same town for so long.

"Most of us leave within a few months," my Cêpan, Atalie, always told me in her thick Lorien accent. "Always having to live on the run, in fear."

"But not me," I would answer, staring off into the Pyrenees mountains. "Those are the ones who are next. I am Number Seven."

_Number Seven._ Atalie insists on reminding me how lucky I am, to be one of the last Loriens on the chopping block. I didn't have to run, because there has always been someone ahead of me; always someone else the Mogadorians were after. The spell prevented the aliens from killing us out of order, which was a blessing for me. For the others, like Number One, it was a curse. He didn't even stand a chance; never heard Señora Gomez sing as sweetly as a sparrow, or listened the old man's captivating tales over a roaring fire and bowl of _frijoles._

I was able to have as normal a childhood as I could. I even had friends, a permanent school, and the same tiny house for all these years. I was safe…until that morning. Until I realized something was horribly wrong.

Three were dead, that much I knew. One was killed in Malaysia, Two in England, and just recently, Three in Kenya. I felt each of their deaths like it was my own; each and every one. Have you ever felt a Mogadorian sword in your gut; felt its poison course through your veins? No, I suppose you couldn't, but _I have_, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

Atalie says that I'm special; that this "gift" is one of my Legacies. I received my first Legacy last year: telekinesis. After hours of training, I was finally able to lift my Cêpan off the ground. Sure, levitating objects in thin air with your mind sounds like an amazing ability, but if feeling other peoples' deaths is a gift, then I never want another birthday present again.

I don't know when my exact birthday is, but Atalie estimates that I was born sometime in Taven, so I always receive my _regalos_ on New Year's Day, known as _Primero de Enero_ here in Spain. I always complain that I'm unlucky, because Taven was always the coldest, most depressing month on Lorien, but as usual, Atalie says it was a gift. Everything to her is a gift, even the piles of dirty laundry in the bathroom or the mountain of orders she has to complete by the end of the week. Maybe that's because we were one of the only ones to survive on Lorien. Only eighteen of us escaped out of the billions who lived there, including our families; my parents.

We were lucky, but sometimes, when I feel the death of one of my fellow Garde, I wonder if surviving actually was a gift. We're always on the run, always have to keep a low profile and worry about the aliens finding us. Now I'm starting to think that the blessing of survival wasn't really a blessing after all. It was a curse.

Were the Mogadorians a present? I don't think so. They destroyed our beautiful planet; destroyed my parents, my grandparents, _everything_. Well, everything except us, the Garde. We escaped with our protectors, our Cêpans, before Lorien was completely abolished. We abandoned our planet and everyone on it to continue the Lorien race before the Mogadorians would have murdered us all.

It doesn't matter how many times I tell Atalie this, she won't listen. She's a Povan, someone who could convince you to pay a fortune for a piece of junk and have you believing you've made a bargain when the day is done. She also speaks seven languages, if you count Lorien, and can play the ukulele like a pro. She can even knit beautiful clothes of every color, and knows probably everything there is to know about Zimbabwe, Russia, and Atlanta, Georgia.

Her profession, however, has nothing to do with any of these talents. She's famous in our little village because of her healing skills. Atalie has a cure for almost every sickness the people of Ladera can throw her way.

"A jack of all trades," villagers tell her in Spanish. I agree.

Despite all her talents, Atalie remains at home for the majority of the year, except for driving to the market for supplies every Tuesday. People who are interested in her services walk the three mile hike through the hills to our small house by the stream. My friends refer to it as "_La Casa Pequeña_," and they're right. It's our home in a nutshell; The Small House.

It's 800 square feet of ancient wood, faded, red shutters, and weathered, cedar shingles. The paint, chipped and faded, was barely noticeable. In the old days, it would have been a quaint, white cottage. Now it was a dilapidated house from years of Spain's bitter snowstorms near the mountains.

If you saw me on the hot, sunny days in my small town, you'd think I was a normal fifteen-year-old girl with auburn hair and deep, green eyes. In many ways, I _am_ ordinary. My life outside of home is just like anyone else's; do homework, laugh with friends, ride my bike down town, and listen to Señor Callas' tall tales.

Yet, in La Casa Pequeña, everything's different. It's there that I have my nightmares; my "visions," as Atalie likes to call them. It's behind those ancient, wooden walls where I received another circular scare that etches into my skin like fire onto flesh whenever one of us is killed. It's here, _en mi casa_, where Atalie and I search the news for anything about the Garde, or any leaks in information that could lead the Mogadorians to us.

For years now, everything's been quiet; _too quiet._ Until now.

If you get to know me better, you might notice that I don't allow pictures to be taken of me, claiming that I'm camera shy. You may wonder why I disappeared the day the news came to our school when there was a fire in the art room, and why I always keep my head low.

What you won't know is that I'm hiding from monsters that came here from another galaxy; the ones who are killing the last of my kind. You won't know that I'm not from Ireland, the place where I was supposedly born. You won't believe me when I say that I literally don't belong here, and that I don't belong anywhere.

Yet that's the truth. My planet was destroyed, and I can _never_ go back.

Everyone believed my story; that I come from Ireland and that Atalie is my mother. Everyone, that is, except Señor Callas, who's the storyteller in our little town. I remember when he asked me in his soft, calming voice one day, a year after we had moved here.

Leaning forward in his rocking chair, Señor Callas motioned me towards him. "_De d__ó__nde eres_?"

_Where are you from?_

I hesitated. Should I lie to him? I trusted him more than anyone—well, anyone except Atalie. Still, I didn't have a choice, and I hated myself for it.

"_Yo soy de Irlanda_," I told him as I looked out the dirty, cracked window in his run-down house. For some reason, I couldn't meet the old man's gaze. It was hard enough lying to him, let alone looking into his caramel colored eyes while I did it. Sometimes I felt like he could read minds, and Atalie always tells me that I'm a terrible liar.

Atalie was right; the old man was not fooled. "_Pensé que acordamos no mentir el uno al otro_," he replied gently, cocking his head to one side.

_I thought we agreed not to lie to each other._

Something in his voice made me look up. It wasn't accusing, but puzzled. He was staring at me curiously, but didn't look offended. I didn't know what to say. I just sat there and gaped at him.

"I—I didn't…"

Señor Callas smiled a broad, toothy grin, revealing his crooked teeth. He raised a wrinkled hand; veins running up and down his arm like blue rivers through dark desert sand.

"Entiendo," the old man interrupted. "No es necesario que me diga, y no voy a preguntar de nuevo." His voice was soft and kind, which wasn't what I expected. His message, however, was clear:

_I understand. You do not need to tell me, and I will not ask again._

I had never been more grateful in my entire life. I was about to thank him when he held up his hand once more. Señor Callas was not yet finished. "_Pero Allie, t__ú__ eres de dos mundos. Estos viejos ojos puede ver que gran parte._"

My heart nearly stopped as I deciphered his message._ But Allie, you are of two worlds. These old eyes can see that much._

I was too stunned to speak._ Tú eres de dos mundos. _How had he known? He wasn't a Cêpan, and he certainly wasn't one of the Garde. He was just a human…a human who could see through me as easily as one would look through clear glass.

As much as I wanted to tell him of Lorien and the Mogadorians, I couldn't do it. I had to keep my life a secret, for all of us. Our lives depended on it, especially now.

Smiling slightly, I thanked him and left his house not long after. I didn't even wait for the water to finishing boiling, which he turned on for me. He always makes me tea after school, even in the summer, because he knows it's my favorite.

Before I stepped out into the frigid winter air, I glanced back at the old man, who hadn't moved from his seat by the fire. He was smiling, as usual, with a familiar glint in his chocolate brown eyes. Behind his grin, however, was something else I couldn't quite place. Knowledge, perhaps? Pity?

Somehow, Señor Callas knew about me. How much he was aware of, I couldn't know for certain, but something was there. That only left two other questions: How did he obtain this information, and could he be trusted?

I already knew the answer to the latter. I would trust the old man with my life. Which life, however, was a mystery. Sometimes even _I_ don't know the answer. Am I the Spanish school girl from Ladera, or Number Seven, a member of the Garde? If it was my decision, I knew what my choice would be. Unfortunately, I was born Lorien; destined to protect the world from the monsters that roamed the galaxy. Even if this was my fate, I didn't want to talk about it. If anything, I wanted to forget about my past all together and live a normal life. Somehow, I believe that Señor Callas understood.

We never talked about my origin again. The old man kept his promise.

*::*::*

Like I said, I had recently felt Number Three's death. It happened late one night in August. I was sleeping, dreaming of Lorien, when suddenly, I was lying on a bunk bed surrounded by mosquito nets. A middle-aged man with a long, brown beard slept in a bunk nearby. Outside, I could hear monkeys swinging from branch to branch and a chorus of foreign insects that sang to each other, even in the middle of the night. Somehow, the sounds sounded familiar, and I knew this musical performance happened here every single night, like how you can always count on the sun to rise every morning. Still, I was positive I had never been here before.

Everything was peaceful, until a few moments later, when the jungle fell silent. Now I don't mean your ordinary silence, like when a teacher yells at you and everyone shuts their mouths. I mean the kind of silence in horror movies, right before the blonde damsel opens the door with the murderer behind it. It was the kind of silence that comes before death.

The older man was awake in an instant. The two of us stared at each other for a long time. Then we heard the rusted metal handle of our tree house door turn. It was locked, of course, but we were in a _tree._ Somehow I knew that no one ever visited here so late at night, if any actually visited at all.

That's when I realized who it was at the door, and the very thought made my blood run cold.

My Cêpan motioned for me to get up, and ever so slowly, he crept towards the door. The floorboards creaked with each step, making me flinch. Just as he reached for the door handle, a jaw-rattling roar cut through the eerie silence like a blade. A large, sharp sword burst through the door and went straight through my beloved Cêpan, whose name I somehow knew, even though I had never seen him before in my life until now.

"_Adolfus!_" I cried in a horrified, masculine voice that wasn't mine.

The older man's stared at me, his eyes filled with pain.

"_Run_," he managed to whisper, and then the sword retreated out the door, taking my Cêpan with it.

I did. This is what I had trained for; to do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means leaving my Cêpan behind. But I had never thought it would actually come to that. Adolfus was my protector, and was by my side as far back as I can remember. He could never disappear.

All this had to be a dream…only it wasn't. My protector was gone.

And I was next.

I sprinted across the tree house and leaped out into the air. With a thump, I landed on the muddy jungle floor and took off, as if I hadn't jumped from twenty-five feet in the air. My conscience switched to auto pilot as I leaped over moss covered logs and trudged across steams that glistened in the moonlight. Something, or _someone_, was right behind me. I could hear their heavy footsteps as they followed my trail through the overgrowth.

I knew my life was at stake and that I could never make it, but my will to live kept me going. Finally, I came across a ravine, three hundred feet across and three hundred feet down. It's an impossible jump, even for me, but it was my only chance. The monsters were right behind me.

With a running start, I leaped across the wide abyss with my bruised, tan arms outstretched. With a thud, my fingers grasped the moist earth, and I managed to pull myself back over the edge.

Now that I was safely on the other side, I stopped. My lungs, burning from the inside out, ached and it were as if my legs had turned into Jello. Had my attackers stopped pursuing me, and if so, would they be back?

Everything inside me screamed, "Keep moving! They're coming!" but my legs wouldn't budge. I laughed as I gazed in the direction of the tree house. No one was there.

With a smile on my face, I turned around—and walked right into a rough, clawed hand that clasped tightly around my neck.

I didn't even have time to cry out as the beast lifted me high in the air. With a heinous smile, full of yellow, needle-sharp teeth; it laughed at me. It was a heartless laugh, and the sound made me wonder how many innocent people its kind had destroyed, and how they could bear taking the soul of another living it tore my amulet off my neck, the ones only the Garde can wear, and tucked it on its belt with two others; the amulets of One and Two. Anger coursed through me as I stared into those wide, cruel eyes.

"The Legacies live," I managed to whisper, my voice ragged. "They will find each other, and when they're ready, they're going to destroy you."

The creature laughed again and took its gleaming white sword out of its sheath. His face, scarred and hideous, looked amused as the Mogadorian thrust its jagged blade into my chest.

I could feel the cold, poisoned medal as it cut through my flesh. With a gasp, I raised my head toward the sky, determined not to have the face of the monster as my final sight. Finally, the pain increased, and my whole body felt like it erupted in flames. Then everything went black.

*::*::*

**Thanks for reading chapter one! More chapters to come if I get reviews, so REVIEW PLEASE. Thanks again, and have a great day! **

**(:(:(:mythomagic:):):)**

**P.S. Sorry if my Spanish is a little off. I used google translator for the majority of it. :D Adios!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Thanks for putting me on favs/alerts and whatnot! Also, special thanks to Jdelacroix and Phee-Nyx-1244 for reviewing to my story! I really appreciate it! **

**So here's my next chapter. ****I used a lot of this chapter from my other fanfic, The Book of Ra. So if you read that story and are wondering why it sounds so similar...it's because they are :D Enjoy!**

Chapter Two

I died two more times that night: First Number Three's death in Kenya, then Two's, and finally, Number One's. Each one brought more pain and a flood of memories into my mind. I was them, experiencing their last moments here on Earth; their last moments alive. I still don't know how explain the feeling; knowing you've failed and that your life is about to come to a painful end. Wondering what the outcome of this war against the Mogadorians will be, and then the sickening realization that you'll never actually know.

After One's death, I thought it was over. When my green eyes fluttered open, however, I didn't see my white walls with peeling paint and a few scattered pictures of friends. Instead, I was standing in a battlefield.

I don't know who I was. I wasn't myself though, because for the first time, I looked down at my hands; now covered in dirt, ashes, and blood (though if it was my blood, I couldn't tell) and found that under all the filth, my hands were white. Well, not _white_ white, but looking at the skin, you'd think I was a tan Caucasian, which I am not. My own skin was paler with a few scattered freckles, and I can't tan for my life. I'm probably one of the palest people you'll ever meet, which is why I found my tan arms so odd. "My" muscles were also a lot bigger, like I had worked out at least six hours a day. Blue veins ran up and down my arms like a river through the golden sands of a desert, their blue color amplified against my dark skin.

It was all too strange and unfamiliar. This _wasn't_ me, dressed in battle armor and gripping the bloodied hilt of a sword. This wasn't _my _wound; the purple and red gash throbbing on my left side, the cuts and bruises, _none of it_. I was in someone else's body, and by the looks of it, I was about to die.

I could feel my life trickling out of me, ever so slowly, as the pain increased. Memories flooded my mind—not _my_ memories, not _my_ mind—but they hurt me all the same. It was a pain even worse than the swollen, pus covered wound. My vision blurred, and I saw a little girl, her crimson colored hair billowing behind her as she ran through the greenest meadow I had ever seen.

No such place existed on Earth; that much I could tell. Magnificent, alien plants of all different colors flourished in the vast field and blew from side to side in the sweet smelling breeze.

The little girl wore a threadbare dress that was once blue but now a faded grey. Her small hands clutched a dozen flowers that looked a lot like pansies with blue veined stems. The fragile, white petals flew off, one by one, as she sprinted through the tall grass, laughing an eerily familiar laugh that sounded like its own childish melody. She looked about four or five, and just thinking of her made my heart leap.

_Meara,_ I thought, and even the name brought me pure joy.

In the memory, a tan, brown haired man wearing torn blue trousers and a white, collarless shirt ran up behind the little girl and picked her up. The toddler, who must be Meara, giggled uncontrollably as he spun her over and over; her red, curly locks flying after her, struggling to keep up as flew through the air. The man smiled and laughed with her, looking like this was the best day of his life. Even his sea green eyes reflected his happiness.

Suddenly, I was in place of the young man, spinning the little girl with no intention of stopping. It was then that I got a good look at the arms that held little Meara: muscular and tan, like he had spent the majority of his time working under the sun. I felt bile rise to my throat as the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. This was the man dying in the middle of the battlefield.

_This was me._

Movement from the corner of my eye brought me back to reality—_this_ reality. Surrounding me was a battle, one I hadn't even noticed or heard. Maybe it was because of my wounds, or the quenching thirst that made my head spin and my eyes water. Dust was everywhere; dust and blood and the mangled bodies of the dead Garde and Cêpans. The temperature must have been over one hundred degrees—or was I imagining that also? Sweat dripped down my face and clouded my vision. What I could see, however, was a man in black robes walking towards me. Wait, not a man, but a hideous creature with a long, white sword.

_A Mogadorian._

The battle raged around him, but his narrow eyes bore down on me like a vulture on its helpless prey. Around his neck he wore numerous amulets, and in his arms he held what looked like a gun. I tried to use telekinesis, one of my Legacies, to lift the two weapons in the air, but the wound in my side weakened me. I could feel my strength and power dripping away, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My strength and power failed me, and for the first time in my life—his life—I was helpless.

This was the end.

All I could do was watch helplessly from the ground as it approached me. Within moments, its tall, dark shadow covered me liked a deathly blanket. Smiling ruefully, it whispered two words into my ear. Although he had a thick Mogadorian accent, I understood what he said.

"_You lose._"

And with that, he drove the knife right through my heart.

The feeling was something I could never begin to describe. It made me catch my breath and my vision slowly fade. I could feel nothing but the pain—God, the pain. I couldn't hear anything; not the sound of the wounded, the anguished cries from the Garde, gunfire, or even the laughter of the sneering Mogadorian. Within moments, the image of the battle disappeared. No matter how hard I focused, my eyes wouldn't open. All I could feel was the agony; a pain worse than any I could imagine.

I saw Meara, her bright smile, her hair the color of fire, the sound of her childish laugh. A man was reading to her by the fire as she reflected the flames in her bright green eyes. In the corner of the tidy room was a strawberry blond woman with sky blue eyes and a pleasant smile, knitting a scarf in the rickety rocking chair beside them. Then it all disappeared; the memories, my senses, and finally, my life. _His life_.

The last thing I felt was a deep and endless sorrow; mourning something more precious than life itself. Something I'd never see again.

*::*::*

I must have gone through at least a dozen more lives, but some took longer to die than others. One man suffered for what seemed like an eternity. He waited for hours in pain; for the wounds to end his life. Around him were the dead bodies of countless Loriens. The fighting still hadn't ceased, but the Mogadorians never came for me—for him. They _wanted_ him to suffer.

By the end, I wanted nothing more than death to come. Whether it was his decision or my own to drive the sword through his heart, I can't say, but the feeling of death was all too familiar when it came.

The lives of the people I had shared their final moments with left after each encounter, but the pain remained. I could still feel the wound on my side, even though it was no longer there. I could still feel the bullet hole through my skull, the Mogadorian sword through my back, the knife in my heart. Yet, hours later, after the gruesome death of yet another Lorien, I looked down to see my mangled, blood covered body, but all I saw was a girl, a little over fifteen years old with pale skin wearing a t-shirt and a pair of puppy pajamas that she had gotten for Christmas last year.

Next to her on her nightstand was a small pile of photographs. One was her with two black-haired girls, smiling at the camera with ice cream cones in their hands. Another was a picture of an old man—Señor Callas—and the red haired girl again, laughing at something the man must have said.

I wasn't battling the Mogadorians. I wasn't wounded or dying, but surrounded by white, paint-peeling walls and moonlight that shone through the cracked window.

I am Number Seven. I'm home, in Spain, hidden from the cold-hearted creatures who want me dead. I am alive…and yet I pray to the God I wasn't. For the first time that night, death didn't come, no matter how many times I prayed.

*::*::*

The visions were over. I don't know how or when I left Lorien. The sound of battle still rung in my ears, but something was different this time: the pain. It hit me so hard, my heart nearly stopped. All the suffering the Loriens-_my family-_ had to endure slammed into me like a train and continued to come, life after life, soul after soul; until I finally awoke once more. I abruptly sat up in my bed, gasping for air. The lingering taste of Mogadorian poison was still on my tongue.

Cautiously, I stepped out from under my covers (that were now soaked with sweat) and stared at myself in the mirror. The girl in the glass' frizzy, red hair was a disaster with her long, auburn locks sticking out in all directions. Other long, auburn tendrils stuck to her sweat blanketed forehead. She was shaking uncontrollably, and her eyes, pale and green, looked frightened and vacant.

What had just happened? It was one of my visions again, it had to be. I was _there,_ in Lorien. Everything felt so real; the pain, the sorrow, _everything._ Could it all have been a dream, or was this what really happened on my planet the day of the Mogadorian attack?

I had had visions before, but never like this. What did they mean? Why did I need to see the past? It's not like I could change it; what's done is done. Atalie always told me not to dwell on what used to be, and I listened to her. I avoided thinking of my old lives, the ones I lived before I moved to Ladera, as much as possible.

Then how was I having visions of the past, and for what purpose? I was about to walk over to Atalie's room when a searing pain shot up my left leg. I gasped and fell to the floor with a thud. In an instant, Atalie was at my side. She placed her scalding cup of coffee on the wooden floor next to me and pushed my pant leg up to reveal my ankle, where the three circle-like shapes were etched permanently into my skin like birthmarks. Each represented the death of my fellow Garde; a painful reminder that we were a dying race, and that my time was coming.

Atalie's brown eyes widened as she stared at my ankle. I was about to ask what was the matter when I saw something move on my leg. It was the three identical circles.

They were _disappearing._

"Wha-what?" I stammered as the markings faded into nothingness. "How-why-"

"Oh God," Atalie whispered in awe. "_They did it_."

She lost me. "Did what? Who did?" I asked shakily, slowly getting to my feet.

"The Garde," my Cêpan breathed. "They've found each other."

I was at a loss for words. The Garde? That couldn't be. We've always stayed away from each other at all costs. I never asked why; I just assumed it was for the best.

"What's so important about that?" I questioned, "and how does it explain my marks' disappearance?"

Atalie stared at me, her eyes a mixture of terror and excitement. "The Garde have found each other, Alannah. They have chosen to fight."

"_Fight?_" The hairs on my arm stood on edge from Atalie's words. "You mean the Mogadorians? Are they _crazy_?"

Atalie placed her hand under my chin and titled it upward so I could face her. "Not crazy, Seven. They are finally doing something right. The Garde have chosen to stand together. The charm is broken."

"Charm? What charm?" I asked, but the look on Atalie's face made me wonder if I actually wanted to know.

"The spell that binds you together. You are no longer Number Seven. Now, you are truly the Garde; a protector of mankind, and the last of the Lorien race. Now, the Mogadorians are the prey," she whispered in Lorien, her brown eyes locked on mine. "_Now it's their turn to die_."

*::*::*

**Don don don! ;) Thanks for reading everyone! I won't update until I reach 5 reviews in total_,_ so if you want to read the next chapter, review! It takes a minute (if that) out of your life. Thanks again for reading and have a great day!**

**(:(:(:mythomagic:):):)**


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